Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

There aren’t many instances in which Henry would claim he exhibits a colorful vocabulary. In fact, he could likely list them on one hand: when wretched people say the most bigoted things, when the local grocer has run out of their Jaffa Cake stock in the minuscule international aisle, when he gets bored and resorts to writing homoerotic poetry in his moleskin journal with a fountain pen like some lovelorn literary scholar from the eighteenth century.

And now, when he’s assigned to a gig he doesn’t want to be at. As in, he would rather publish said poetry to the unrelenting, merciless masses of the internet than be at this gig.

“You must be bloody fucking kidding me.”

“Oh, chin up, Hen,” Bea chirps, but it’s not without a hint of older-sister scolding. “This is a great opportunity and you know it.”

Henry rolls his eyes despite the truth in Bea’s statement. It’s not just a great opportunity—it’s an incredible one.

“You’re the best we’ve got, kid. Don’t fuck this up,” Rafael Luna, his director, had told him. The statement was brief, but it’s the most glowing praise one could hope to get out of a man of Luna’s pedigree.

It’s hard to believe it, sometimes; that Rolling Stone wants him, that Rolling Stone values him, his work—his view of the world, carefully crafted and narrowed down through a telephoto lens, filtered through light and printed into a state of permanence for millions of eyes to appreciate, to commend. He knows it to be true through the approving tick of Luna’s jaw as he clicks through a finished portfolio, through the slew of comments on his Instagram—flattering ones on images of celebrities from his recent assignments framed in glowing, multicolored stage lights, and more…enthusiastic ones on his behind-the-scene photos: Harry Styles, legs outstretched on a yellow sofa, an acoustic guitar on his lap as he drinks champagne from the bottle; members of Maneskin, uninhibited in the backseat of a limo, glitter smeared on Damiano’s chest, visible through his sheer top and Victoria, posed impishly with her tongue, which is coated in sparkles of the same color, out; Elijah Hewson of Inhaler, middle finger raised, grin plastered to his face, shot through the blurry reflection of a dressing room mirror.

There’s strings of incoherent keyboard smashes.

There’s shouts of EVERYONE SAY THANK U HENRY FOX and Henry is feeding us so fucking good today im LOSING my MIND.

There’s DM’s. There’s tweets, his name trending online alongside the very celebrities that he captures. There’s waves upon waves of comments and mentions and tags, far too many for him to be able to respond to each one.

It’s what he’s known for. It’s what he loves.

And it shows. Because Rolling Stone sent him here, alone, which doesn’t happen all that often.

It’s an important article: The Brightest Pop Stars in the Sky: Here’s 25 Artists To Look Out for in the New Year. The artist who was ranked number one, which they were dubbing The Sun, was to be given a full two-page spread, and Henry was tasked with capturing their essence at their most recent New York show.

He feels lucky. Truly, he does. Except—

“I don’t trust that miscreant to be within ten feet of me.”

Bea groans, tilting her head back. “Come off it. I don’t get why you insist on hating the bloke so much. He’s talented, has a positively sinful voice, curls that I know you’d love to sink your—”

“Yes, thank you. I get it.” Henry cuts her off. Bea is a huge fan, had bought her ticket to tonight’s show long before Henry had even landed the job, and insisted that they show up together. When he told her that he’d have to get there early, she had just looked at him incredulously, told him that she would be too if she wanted any chance at all of procuring a coveted barricade spot without earning a few elbows to her ribs.

But Henry doesn't share her sentiment. Not by a long shot. Even if the whole fingers-in-hair thing would typically hold true, it doesn’t outweigh the displeasure of the absolute plague those curls are attached to.

“Mm, no. I don’t think you do,” Bea muses. “It’s been years, Hen. You really must give it a rest.”

And, truly, it’s easier said than done, isn’t it?

Anything that Alex Claremont-Diaz did, does, or ever will do, would be a herculean task to forget.

Two years ago. A nondescript bar, a boy with a shoddy film camera, and a band—new to the scene, but local, and, apparently, an incredible talent.

Henry had gone into the backstage area—though, it was really just a dimly lit hallway that smelled faintly of stale whisky with beige paint peeling off the walls—to meet the band, get a feel of who he’d be photographing. He liked doing this when he got the chance, as it allowed him to know what story he’d try to tell through his images, what aura he’d want to leap through the luster, how he’d allow the artist to transcend their allotted two-dimensional barrier.

It was a bit hard to accomplish that, though, with a shattered lens.

Henry had been walking down the aforementioned hallway when a door to his left opened and out stumbled a boy, slightly younger than him, dressed in an oversized graphic tee and ripped jeans with an acoustic guitar slung across his back.

Clearly, though, he wasn’t watching his own, considering how he’d bodily slammed into Henry, causing his camera to fall out of his hand and drop onto the floor.

Henry stood there, frozen—it had taken him months to save up for that lens, and all it took was some wannabe star to completely fracture what he worked so hard for.

Rather than apologize, the boy had just gaped at Henry, flashing a hint of perfectly straight, blindingly white teeth, and stuttered out a few incomprehensible syllables before clumsily turning on his heels and practically running away from the scene of the crime.

Later, that same boy, that same mouth, had sung his heart out to an audience of twenty-two, and Henry preserved the glint in his eye, the grit of his voice, the provoking slope of his jaw with the snap of his shutter. Henry could barely handle his effervescence through the safety of his viewfinder. It didn’t matter that he only had his shitty backup lens and a chip on his shoulder—the photos turned out stunning. Of course they did.

Henry had tried to find the boy—Alex—after the show. He was upset, sure, but he knew a good performance—a good performer—when he saw one, and he wanted the chance to actually talk to him. He figured that Alex would want to do the same, clear the air before any toxic smog could permeate it.

He did find Alex, but he wasn’t alone. He had a girl, a rather beautiful one with dark curls that rivaled Alex’s and a wide, sardonic smile attached to his hip, an arm with scattered ink loosely slung across her shoulders. She whispered something into his ear. He laughed, loud and bright. It was cut off when he spotted Henry, when their eyes made contact, Alex’s widening and Henry’s narrowing, and then Alex was hastily pulling the girl into a coat closet. Probably to make out and ignore Henry and avoid the damage that he caused. Whatever.

Henry loved his job, loved meeting artists and realizing that they’re usually people just like him: humble, chasing their dreams, trying to make something out of nothing.

Clearly, Alex Claremont-Diaz was none of these things. Henry hated him out of principle.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t the last time they saw each other. Far from it, actually. They ran in similar circles, in industries that paralleled one another. If they weren’t crossing paths in person, at venues or festivals or whatnot, Alex was clogging up his social media feeds and tabloids with his rapidly growing success. His stupidly symmetrical face often proved to be quite the distraction—sometimes he just wanted to be able to check out his groceries and maintain a proper conversation with the nice clerk lady without being bloody smoldered at by a pair of whisky eyes.

Henry was smart enough to keep his animosity from showing on the internet, but any in-person interactions were fair game. He didn’t bother covering up the sneer on his lips when they’d pass in dimly lit hallways; he didn’t hide the indignant nature of his pointedly aimed glares; he didn’t bother showing up to Alex’s sets, even if he was scheduled to shoot at the same stage just thirty minutes later.

They may have met when Alex was in a band, Amateur Hour, but, around a year ago, Alex had gone solo. Henry had scoffed when he’d discovered this tidbit of information; it made sense after all—Alex being uncaring of anyone but himself, wanting to work his way to the top on his own, using others to get there before ditching them when he’d gotten what he’d wanted out of them, completely hogging the spotlight and taking up the entirety of any space that he’d walked into, lighting it up from the inside out with nothing but a blinding grin and the infuriating glint in his eye that never seemed to dissipate.

(Henry considers this last fact to be wholly unusual, whenever he thinks about it—which is more often than he’d like to admit. Did he have it surgically implanted there? It’s ridiculous, really.)

All that to say, him branching off makes sense: Alex is cocky, arrogant, and wholly maddening. Henry knows how to capture that on camera.

That doesn’t mean he wants to.

But, he begrudgingly lets Bea bodily shove him into the venue anyway, despite all of his incessant grumblings about the matter. She leaves him to be on his merry way with a smacking peck to the cheek and a pat on the shoulder that’s much too strong for a woman who’s only 5’2”. He rubs his shoulder with a wince as he watches her practically skip off into the wind before following in her footsteps in a decidedly less chipper manner.

The moment he walks onto the floor, though, his heart rate seems to steady out. The pressure on his poor arteries is given a momentary reprieve as he lets his limbs loosen up, shaking out the lingering tension in his shoulders. He likes to just stand there, sometimes, soaking up the moments before a show: the rush of joyous fans crowding in, the air as it thickens with a sort of palpable, heady tension, the steady increase of volume from bouts of excited chatter and unmitigated elation as showtime looms closer and closer.

That would be the logical explanation for the thrumming sensation beneath his skin. Probably. Definitely.

Henry lets himself get lost in the swell of bodies, trying to gauge tonight’s crowd, for as long as he can before he forces himself to head over to the area in front of the barricade, checking in with various other crew members and employees before making sure he has everything that he needs for the shoot.

It’s mere moments later that the main lights begin to dim and piercing screams sound out from all around him. A guitar riff joins the cacophony—a slow, sensual tune, complimented by a rich bass, and then—

Alex: lit up in various shades of red and orange, a sleek black electric guitar slung over his shoulder, sheer top over a plain white wife beater, and black jeans so tight one might think that they’ve been painted on. He stalks over to the mic stand, grabs the mic, slowly curling one finger over it at a time, and lets one corner of his mouth tick up in a smirk before drawling, “How the fuck are we doing tonight, N.Y.C.?”

The crowd, predictably, goes completely fucking insane, and a security guard is already having to toss a teen girl a bottle of water. Henry can hardly remember to take a breath, let alone a photo. The harsh click of his shutter kicks his lungs back into gear much slower than he would’ve liked it to.

Alex crowds closer to the mic until he’s practically swapping spit with it—Henry can hear the man’s heavy breaths through the speakers and he hasn’t even begun to perform yet, for Christ’s sake—and announces, “Come on now, valentines. Don’t hold back on me for this first one, yeah? This is sharp teeth.”

The tempo picks up pace, then, and the charged air becomes electrified the moment Alex’s euphonious voice cuts through the static. It’s easy, then, for Henry to let go of any transgressions between the two of them to focus on his task. Just because he doesn’t like Alex doesn’t mean he can’t admit that his music is good (fine, maybe more than good); the whip-fast pace of the song, the biting syllables rolling off his tongue, the feeling of the bass pounding double-time in Henry’s chest, reverberating off his heart and making the blood in his veins sing, inspires something in Henry. It allows him to get caught up in his subject’s sharp movements and quick-witted words and the way he’s so close he can see individual beads of sweat dripping down Alex’s brow.

Allows himself to soak it all in and feed off of it. Just like he would for anyone else; it’s going to take a lot more than some American with a loud, pouty mouth, unruly curls, and a deep baritone to throw him off his game.

Henry had grown up a bit sheltered, so he had to find ways to express himself that wouldn’t be deemed “unseemly” by the more treacherous members of his family. There were a slew of hobbies that he’d tried over the years—and perhaps a slew of more…salacious things. People. Still, this buzzing energy dwelled under his skin all the same, one that he could never quite channel elsewhere, often leaving him antsy and restless and, honestly, bloody annoyed.

He was burning out before he’d even known something inside of him was alight in the first place.

He’d met Pez during his sophomore year of uni when the man had promptly attached himself to Henry’s side within a minute of introducing himself. He was chagrined at first, still stuck deep inside of his shell and unused to the fact that people might want to be around him on their own accord rather than because they had something to gain from doing so.

I’m like a wet limpet, Haz, Pez had pronounced one night, drunk off his arse on shitty tequila and something distinctly Skittles scented. I chose to latch onto you. You’re my rock. My perfect, smooth little rock.

(Henry wasn’t sure how he felt about that last part, but it was the sentiment that counted. He might’ve cried. There was vodka involved.)

Over the years, Henry developed quite a fondness for music—one doesn’t hang around Pez, what with his proclivity for playing various eccentric, meticulously hand-crafted playlists, without growing accustomed to an infinite array of genres, without being exposed to the incredible talent that exists in the world.

Pez pushed Henry, inspired him (and, at times, enabled him, but Henry doesn’t wish to disclose the outcomes of those particular ventures), always telling him that Henry had to provide his mind with “ample enrichment time”—which was apparently just another way of telling Henry to be creative.

Throughout his life, this particular trait tended to emerge in the form of a fountain pen pressed into rich parchment, putting words to page in scrawling, messy cursive in his haste to get the unending stream of thoughts in his mind out so that maybe, just maybe, it would be quiet for once. At times, it was fun—Henry creating these marvelous worlds from thin air and a penchant for all things fantastical. But, it was also used as a means of escape. He used writing to escape the harsh realities of his world by creating brand-sparkly-new ones for himself to jump into instead, ones where the world held his heart gently in its palms instead of crushing it with a firm, unrelenting grip.

When he’d admitted this to Pez, though, he was met with a rare, uncertain gaze. He understood Henry’s outlet, but he also wanted to show Henry another way. How to live in the present moment, how to appreciate the space around him, how to take that firm grip and peel each digit away one at a time and press a forgiving kiss to every fingertip. So, Pez signed them up for an afternoon photography course.

Henry never truly saw the beauty of the world until it was narrowed down through the lens of a viewfinder.

It allowed Henry to reclaim the dull embers that sat dormant, heavy in his gut, then. He lit the damn spark that turned them into blazing flames himself.

But then, there’s Alex. Alex, who has this peculiar way of fanning Henry’s flames in more ways than one. It’s a dichotomy that Henry doesn’t want to attempt parsing.

He doesn’t let it faze him. Because this is a job, just another gig—albeit an important gig, but still—and Henry is incredible at his job. He knows he is. He knows how to set his camera, how to tilt his body and arch his back just so to get the best angles, how to frame his subjects perfectly to procure the most devastating shots.

So, it’s driving Henry absolutely mad, how easy Alex is making his job. He doesn’t need the help. He doesn’t need Alex being all sly and sinuous with his movements. He doesn’t need the effortless way in which Alex manages to catch the light, how it latches onto every tantalizing aspect of his being: the sharp angles of his jaw, the swatches of glitter painted over his cheekbones, his clavicle, the sliver of his stomach that peeks out whenever his tank rides up, the material of his sheer top adorned with small golden stars. It clings to his lashes and refracts off his earrings and brightens his smile, one that’s perpetually quirked in a way that implies he knows something you don’t, that there are secrets hiding beneath a sharp tongue.

There is one way that Alex makes Henry’s job more difficult, though. Alex is so bright that it’s likely murking up the exposure of every photo and will therefore make the editing process a real pain in his backside.

“Alright y’all,” Alex begins after running through song after song throughout the night without taking so much as a single breath—his stamina is quite impressive—while looking every inch the mischievous rock star that he is. “It’s that oh-so-very special time of the night again. Y’all know the one. Now, usually, this is when we’d play a song requested by one of you lovely folks out there in the audience. We only have one rule: If we know it, we play it. Simple as that. But…”

Alex trails off, looking to Liam, the in-house band’s drummer whom Henry had briefly chatted with before the show, with a slight nod as if to confirm something that the rest of the audience is not yet privy to.

“We’re going to go a bit…off the beaten path, tonight. A ‘fuck you’ to the status quo, if y’all don’t mind.”

Liam plays a quiet buzz roll before Alex says his next words, indicative of an announcement. When Henry looks back at Alex, his large, kohl-framed eyes are already locked on Henry’s. Something resembling anxiety roils in his gut at the sharp, sure glint in Alex’s gaze.

“See, we have a very, very special friend out in the crowd. And it just so happens that I have the perfect fuckin’ song to play for ‘em, so…” Alex winks at Henry, puckers his lips in a silent kiss, and makes direct, burning eye contact when he says, “This one’s for you, sweetheart.”

Henry doesn’t have time to attempt deciphering what Alex means before the man starts singing; if Henry thought that he would’ve been able to use any of his higher brain power to do so before, any chance of that happening is completely obliterated when Alex moans the song’s opening lyrics. Repeatedly.

“Give it to me baby, uh huh, uh huh.”

Alex stalks closer to Henry, alternating between smooth rolls of his hips and shoulders, never breaking eye contact until his last uh huh which he pointedly emphasizes by tilting back his head, screwing his eyes shut, and dropping his mouth open in a wide “o”.

“And all the girlies say he’s pretty fly for a white guy.”

Alex breaks out on his electric guitar, then, and Henry finds his own mouth dropping to mirror the shape of Alex’s just moments before. But, his is decidedly in shock, not arousal—even if Alex’s was of the mocking sort—due to his subtle lyrical change of the 90s tune. Alex begins to walk around the stage in a casual, nonchalant, almost taunting manner when he bites out the next lines.

“You know it’s kinda hard just to get along today. Our subject isn’t cool”—he points in the vague direction of Henry—“but he fakes it anyway.”

“He may not have a clue and he may not have style,” he sings, slowly looking Henry up and down. When he reaches Henry’s face, his gaze is blazing, lips curled up in what could only be described as a tantalizing smirk. “But everything he lacks, well he makes up in denial.”

Alex kicks up his energy from that point on, nearly shouting the lyrics from the cavernous depths of his chest, errant curls flying back and forth through the air. His shirt gets taken off somewhere along the way. Henry wouldn’t be able to tell you precisely when that happened, even if it were on penalty of “no more Jaffa Cakes for life.”

If Henry’s last few photos come out blurry, he’ll blame it on a technological malfunction. Or because he was concussed after being hit in the head with a girl’s poster sign. Not because his hands were shaking too much to hold the camera steady. Definitely not.

It would have nothing to do with the way Alex slightly reworks the song so that it ends with the same lyrics he opened it with, this time slowly dropping to his knees directly in front of Henry, the deep resonance of his now raspy, “uh huh, uh huh,” reverberating overtop the heady rush of blood that thrums in his eardrums. Maybe he should’ve brought his fancy earplugs that Bea bought him for when the loudness gets too overwhelming at times. Maybe not having them is the reason he’s begun to feel a sudden bout of dizziness that matches the buzzing nature of his mind.

He flinches when the crowd breaks out into a cacophony of noises: a girl to his left wolf whistles, one to his right yells through a sob, and he even thinks he hears someone behind him mutter, “I think ‘m gonna be sick.” Henry moves a couple of feet to the side after that.

“Y’all have been a fuckin’ lovely crowd tonight. Thank you so much, from the bottom of my heart, for welcoming me to your city like this. Being able to perform here means the absolute fuckin’ world to me, so thank you for supporting me and allowing this to happen. Thank you, goodnight, and have the sweetest of dreams, valentines. Or go out and get absolutely smashed—I know that’s what I’ll be doing.”

He blows a few kisses out to the crowd, and then he’s gone. Moments pass, the crowd starts to filter out, and the crew begins to work on breaking down everything for the night. But Henry just stands among the dwindling commotion stock still, staring down at his camera’s screen where a pair of whisky eyes glare back at him. It’s slightly fuzzy, and yet Henry can’t bring himself to look away.

“What the fuck.”

Chapter Text

Henry stands in front of the entrance to the nondescript hotel lobby. Blinks a few times. Takes a steadying breath. Tilts his head up to the sky as if the heavens will see him and take pity upon his poor soul as he pinches the bridge of his nose before entering through the revolving doors.

Of course, he’d have to meet up with Alex so that he could personally choose the magazine’s cover photo. Of course, Alex would push to have the final say as to how his ever-so-important image will be portrayed to millions, as if he doesn’t trust Henry to pick one on his own. As if Henry’s own job isn’t at stake here. As if Henry would purposely choose an unflattering image of Alex as though he wouldn’t get laughed out of the room or fired as a result—even if the action is tempting, Henry isn’t that dim.

“Fancy meeting you here. You stalking me?”

Something in Henry’s chest jumps at the sudden, low timbre of Alex’s voice as he walks up to Henry, but he thinks he manages to prevent it from showing on his face. He gives himself a mental pat on the back for his sheer resilience when he veils the small twitch of his brow by raising it in Alex’s direction.

“Your management told me to come here, Alex. Besides, I was meant to meet you at your room. If anything, I’d wager that you were the one stalking me. Or were you just that eager to see me?”

Alex just shrugs heavily, turning his back on Henry and walking toward the elevator. When Henry doesn’t follow, Alex turns around and snaps his fingers. “If you’re gonna have legs that long, you might as well put ‘em to use. You coming or what?”

Henry rolls his eyes but catches up to Alex, following him into the elevator and watches as he pushes the button for the sixteenth floor. The ride up is quiet, awkward, which is an environment that Henry has never done historically well in, so he tries to fill the silence.

“I think you’re going to enjoy some of the shots I got. Of you.”

Alex smirks. “Did you make me look hot?”

Henry doesn’t know how to answer that.

“In need of an ego boost?” he deflects.

“Mm, nope,” Alex draws out, popping the ‘p’. “I get plenty of those on the daily. Adoring fans, mirrors, etcetera.”

Henry stares at him blankly. “Right.”

He’s saved by the bright ding of the elevator doors opening, feeling a sudden gratefulness that it hadn’t stopped on any other floors on its venture up and prolonged the ride for longer than it had to be—or worse: if someone else had gotten in alongside them.

Henry exits first, shoving his way past Alex and—albeit accidentally—knocking his shoulder. Alex scoffs and then bloody dead legs him like they’re a pair of primary schoolers.

“Absolute— Plague on my existence,” Henry mutters under his breath. And then, more loudly: “Real professional, truly.”

Alex twirls around, walking backward as he says, “And a consummate one at that, sweetheart,” before saluting Henry with a wink and smoothly turning back using the balls of his feet. He takes a steadying breath.

If asked, Henry would deny glancing down at Alex’s arse as he walks in front of him. It just happens to be in his line of sight, is all. There’s probably some law of attraction out there having to do with 5’8” menaces who wear impossibly tight jeans.

When they reach Alex’s room, he unlocks the door with a swipe of his key card, holding it open and swinging his arm out as a signal for Henry to enter.

“Ah, so now he decides to be humble,” Henry quips.

“Just like my mama raised me,” Alex retorts with a toothy grin.

Henry toes his loafers off and sits down at the small table. He opens up his messenger bag and slides out his laptop and camera, setting up everything he needs to review the photos with Alex.

“Oh, yeah, sure. Make yourself at home then,” Alex drawls sarcastically, plopping into the chair opposite of him. Henry scoffs out a laugh.

“I’m getting whiplash over here, dear. Perhaps you should consider a career change, take up magic instead. One second your manners seemingly exist and the next,” Henry flicks his wrist in the air. “Poof, they’re gone.”

It’s not as though it’s a new revelation for Henry, though, given how they seemed to evade Alex when they had first met, too. So, he can’t exactly categorize how he’s feeling as surprised. It’s more of this…pestering annoyance, the way that Alex gets under Henry’s skin like he’s trying to make himself a permanent home there.

Perhaps disconcerted is the word he’s looking for.

“Can we just get on with it?” Alex sighs as if this is the last way he wants to be spending his Friday evening. “This is the last way I want to be spending my Friday night—and my last one in the city, at that.”

Oh. Right, then.

“Certainly.”

“Great,” Alex huffs.

“Good.”

“Fine.”

“Fuckin’”—Alex looks like he wants to rip his curls out—“Stellar.”

Henry opens his laptop a bit too rough.

He pulls up his reel of photos in Bridge, scrolling up to the top of them. But, Alex is still sitting across from him, which makes it physically impossible for Alex to see Henry’s screen. Henry pointedly nods his head to the side, but Alex just stares at him, not taking the hint. So, deciding for himself to move things along, he hooks an ankle around the leg of Alex’s chair and forcibly scoots him around the table in a series of short, jerky movements until Alex is next to him.

“Um— Hey. What the fuck, dude?”

“I’m just obliging to what you said. I don’t want to be here any longer than necessary. This isn’t exactly my ideal night out, either.”

Henry purposefully lets his words remain vague, not elaborating that his aforementioned “ideal night out” is actually a night in, one spent shoving an absurd amount of spongy snack cakes into his mouth while watching the 1995 Pride and Prejudice miniseries. And by watching it, he means rewinding Colin Firth’s lake scene on a loop until his fingertips get numb from all of the repetitive button pushing.

“Awe, look at that. We finally agree on something,” Alex croons.

“It would certainly appear that way.”

“Why waste time say lot word when few word do trick?” Alex mutters under his breath.

Henry raises a brow. “Come again?”

“Ah, so it’s like a kinky thing for you then,” Alex nods. “Got it.”

Henry gapes incredulously—he’s officially lost the plot. He isn’t sure if there was ever one to begin with, actually. “What on Earth are you going on about?”

“Oh, nothing. Gonna show me those pretty pictures you took or what?”

Henry allows himself to take a long-suffering sigh, straightening his back. “I’ve been trying to.”

Alex tilts his head down at him. “Right, yeah, sure. But like— Jesus, dude. Could you loosen up a bit first? This isn’t a fuckin’ business meeting.”

“That is quite literally exactly what this is.”

“I’m just saying,” Alex plows on, rolling his eyes. “Chill out a bit. Remove the stick from up your ass. Or—” Alex cuts himself off with a snicker. “Is it a tripod?”

Henry purses his lips. “I would be loath to agree, but I’m afraid I have to remove ten points on account of lack of originality. A tripod? That’s rather clichéd.”

Alex, for some god-forsaken reason, beams at that. “My God, he knows how to be funny. Do it again.”

“Pardon?”

“Tell me a knock-knock joke. Or a pun.” Alex bounces in his seat. “Oh! Or a riddle!”

“I’ll pass,” Henry drones. “But thank you for your generous request. Contrary to popular belief, I won’t be here all night.”

“And then I said, ‘that’s not a camel, that’s my wi—’”

Henry slams his palm over Alex’s mouth to give his poor ears a break from Alex’s incessant gabbing before his mind can catch up to his body’s actions, not realizing until the room has gone starkly silent that his hand is touching Alex’s mouth. And that he’s left it there for much more than an appropriate amount of time (although, he’s unsure what exactly could be construed as such in this scenario). Alex breaks whatever strange moment they’ve found themselves in by licking Henry’s hand.

“That’s disgusting,” Henry bemoans while wiping his now wet hand on Alex’s trousers, and— Christ, he really needs to stop touching Alex. He yanks his hand away much too fast for his haste to go unnoticed, and Alex sharply looks down at the action. But, thankfully, he says nothing.

“Erm— Photos,” Henry eloquently says.

“Yup. Photos.” At least Alex’s voice is equally as strained, interestingly enough.

Henry angles his laptop so that it’s easier for Alex to see the screen and starts clicking through the images.

He learns very quickly that Alex is very…indecisive, to put it politely.

“Nope. Next,” he says shortly. Henry sighs.

“And what is it that you don’t like about this one, exactly?”

“My head looks weird,” Alex says nonsensically.

“It quite literally does not. That’s what your head looks like, Alex.”

“I take offense to that. I’m writing you out of my will.”

“I’m sure you do, and it would have been quite concerning if I’d been in it in the first place, considering that we hardly know one another and, oh, I don’t know, you despise me.”

Alex opens his mouth as if to retort but simply hums instead, twisting his lips to the side and looking at some vague point over Henry’s shoulder before returning his attention to the screen. Henry clicks through a few more images.

“How about this one?” It’s an objectively great photo. It should be exactly what Alex wants to portray through his carefully curated image: dark curls drenched in sweat, dangling over his forehead just so; the corner of his lip pinched in a smirk as he belts through a particularly raunchy lyric (yes, Henry remembers which one—it would’ve been hard for him to forget); one of his hands curled around his mic with a tight grip, the other lifting the hem of his tank top, teasing the trail of hair there that goes down, down, down until it reaches his—

Alex sucks his teeth. “Nah. I look like I’m about to sneeze. Next.”

Henry narrowly avoids the urge to groan. And by that, he means that he tried to stop it but partially failed, the sound coming out of him resembling a partially broken whine. He’s just frustrated. It’s fine.

When he risks looking at Alex, he’s staring at Henry with half-lidded eyes.

“If you’re bored, or at risk of falling asleep on me, we could just take a break,” Henry says, albeit a bit sharply. He doesn’t want to take a break.

Alex blinks his long lashes a few times before shaking his head, his expression shifting almost imperceptibly. “I’m fine, just— Keep going.”

Henry hums and clicks ahead for a few moments.

There’s a photo of Alex, eyes screwed shut, long fingers around his neck with his head tilted back, hips thrusted forward: “No way. You can see all the way up my nostrils, and they’re not even that big. You must’ve shot it at a weird angle.”

There’s a photo of Alex, fingers dancing along the strings of his electric guitar, eyes sparkling with mirth and what could only be described as adoration for his craft, lip bitten in concentration: “My hand is bent all weird. People are gonna think that I’m not actually playing.”

There’s a photo of Alex, sitting on a wooden stool during his only acoustic song of the night, a genuine, toothy grin on his face: “I dunno. Not very badass of me, is it? I want people to see this photo and be all like, ‘Oh my God, he’s so hot, I want him soooo bad,’ and not like, ‘I’d put his music on for my grandpa to listen to while he’s taking a nap on the front porch.’ Or like, ‘I’d listen to that song while I’m driving my Ford F-150 down the highway.’ Although, maybe if it were a monster truck, I suppose that would be pretty cool. Hey, do you think that I—”

“I am begging you to put a sock in it,” Henry interrupts, over Alex’s ramblings and petty excuses.

Alex looks at him pensively. “Mm, I can’t imagine that’d feel good. Usually, the sock goes over your dick, not up your—”

Henry doesn’t hear the rest of Alex’s sentence—he’s much too busy smothering his face with his hands, groaning as he lets his elbows land on the table with a thump. He slowly slides his face out from its newfound sanctuary, letting his arms drop back down. One of them lands at his side, but the other lands on his keyboard, accidentally clicking one of the arrow buttons and changing the image on the screen. He hears a sharp inhale of breath to his left.

Henry looks at Alex, who’s looking at the monitor with his lips slightly parted, and Henry follows his gaze to see what caused such a reaction. When he does, he instantly understands.

This is his cover photo. It has to be—there’s no denying it.

It’s one from earlier on in the night of the show. Someone had thrown a sparkly pink cowboy hat onto the stage, and Alex had picked it up and carefully placed it on his head so that not all of his curls were obscured by the object. Rather, they were perfectly framed by its fluffy trim. His head is slightly tilted down, but his eyes peek out from beneath the brim where one of his hands is holding it—they must have been dead set on Henry’s lens because he can feel the weight of his smoldering gaze through the photo; it lands squarely in the center of his solar plexus and knocks the breath out of him in one fell swoop.

Alex’s other hand is flat on his chest, pointed downward as it travels down his chest in a way that would make anyone want to follow its path with their eyes, trying to predict where it might go. And the glitter—it’s everywhere, and it makes Alex absolutely shine. There’s so much of it—down the column of his neck, over the arch of his brow, across his collarbones, trailing down past the neckline of his top. He’d already broken out in a sweat, and it had caused the glitter to spread, coating Alex in a layer of sparkle and sheen. It’s bloody obscene.

It’s perfect.

“Yeah, fuck this,” Alex says suddenly. Henry sucks in a breath as he turns to face Alex, wholly unprepared to hear whatever excuse he’s managed to conjure up this time. Instead, he finds Alex looking right at him, a newfound glint in his eye that wasn’t there before. Henry doesn’t know what it means, and it instantly sets him on edge. The hairs on his arms rise, acting as a warning sign: danger, run away, get out while you still can!

“Henry. Every time you look at a photo you took, your grin is so fucking wide that it hurts to look at. And I can tell that you think you’re trying to veil it—and succeeding—but I hate to break it to you: you’ve been doing a pretty shitty job. It’s written all over your face.”

Alex scans his face, then, as if mapping all of its peaks and slopes for reasons yet to be specified. Henry swallows. “What is?”

“How much you want me.”

Henry tries to divert. “Doesn’t everyone?”

Which was, apparently, the wrong thing to say. He knows it, what with how he immediately inhales, mouth gaping open before snapping back shut when Alex looks down at his lips. He knows what he must look like—utterly horrified, that is—given his widened eyes and the way he can feel a bright flush spreading across his cheeks.

Alex preens. “That include you, sweetheart? Have I found myself a secret valentine?”

“I—”

“Should I expect a bag of candy hearts in my P.O. box from you?”

Henry shoots out of his seat. “Christ, Alex.” He paces around the room, shutting his eyes before immediately snapping them back open, lest he trip and fall flat on much more than his metaphorical face. “I just need to—”

“Shut me up?” Alex bites, but it’s softened by the teasing tick of his smile. His eyes are inexplicably darker than they were mere seconds ago, a sure, searing quality lingering in their depths.

Henry’s jaw ticks. His fingers flex by his sides. “That would be the idea, yeah.”

Alex stands up, then, crowding up into Henry’s space in four broad steps. Henry hadn’t noticed the smell of his cologne before, but he does now: warm cinnamon with a hint of sandalwood.

“So?” Alex chides. “The fuck are you waiting for?”

And, well. Henry supposes the answer is absolutely nothing, so he leans impossibly closer until he’s slightly towering over Alex’s figure and whispers, “Such a mouth on you.”

Alex cocks his head to the side. “Yeah? Wanna find out what it tastes like?”

Henry’s tongue peeks out to wet his lips. He juts his chin out, summoning any and all of his confidence when he says, “I’m going to kiss you now. Good?”

“Great.”

The tips of their noses touch. “Peachy.”

“Sublime.”

“Wonderful.” Henry tilts his chin up, ghosts a final word over Alex’s lips. “Lovely.”

He isn’t sure who breaks the remaining shred of distance between their mouths, but he knows that there’s nothing to complain about. Alex kisses him like a man starved, like he’s been bottling up their bouts of shared animosity throughout the years and is just now uncorking the lid and draining its contents, pushing the remnants into Henry’s mouth.

Henry drinks it up. Returns it in the rough press of his mouth, in the way he opens up to Alex’s tongue without a second thought when it licks at the seam of his lips; Alex does so in the sharp cut of teeth that nip into soft flesh, in the way he pulls it taut before releasing it with a pop, the soothing lave of his tongue that follows acting as a welcome balm to the sting.

He places one hand on Alex’s hip and slides the other up his back, lets it glide through his curls—and, Christ, are they soft—before grasping them, tugging at a fistful as he guides Alex back toward the bed in the center of the room. Alex whines as he does so, which is a fact that Henry slots away for later, letting it linger around in the forefront of his mind. The sound is cut off when the backs of Alex’s knees hit the edge of the bed and he falls backward. He props himself up on his elbows as Henry climbs on top of him, caging Alex’s waist between bent legs.

They meet in a kiss again, and it’s no less bruising than the last one that they shared. Henry takes advantage of his newfound knowledge and pulls at Alex’s hair again, as well as the moment of distraction that comes when Alex withdraws with a moan, eyes firmly shut and brow furrowed, to place his hands on Alex’s shoulders and shove them so that Alex is laying flat on his back.

“Go on then,” Henry starts, swinging his legs off of Alex’s lap. “Scoot up for me.”

Alex looks like he wants to retort. But, Henry levels him with what he hopes is a burning glare rather than one of unbridled lust, and he acquiesces, moving toward the headboard until he’s settled among the pillows. Alex bends his arms behind his head and stretches out the rest of his limbs.

“Comfortable, are we?” Henry asks.

“I would be even more if you got your ass back on top of me if we’re being honest.”

So, Henry crawls over to him, settling his hips atop Alex’s, gasping when he finds that Alex is already half hard in his trousers.

“Christ, Alex. You really want this?”

“Wasn’t it obvious?” Alex thrusts his hips up as if to prove his point. Henry can’t exactly argue given the damning proof, so he moans instead, dropping his forehead to rest against Alex’s.

“You want me.”

“Yup.”

“And yet, there you were, earlier.” Henry moves his head to ghost the words into the shell of Alex’s ear; the man shivers. “Ribbing me about how much I must’ve wanted you.”

“So?” Alex grits out, his voice rough.

“Oh, nothing.” Henry nips at Alex’s earlobe. “Simply an observation, is all. A rather interesting one, though.”

Henry kisses a trail down the expanse of Alex’s throat, leaving a mark when he reaches the smooth skin below his collarbone, predicting that Alex would be loath to receive any where they might be visible. He pulls back to admire his work, smiling softly to himself as he thumbs over the blooming color. Alex’s voice breaks him out of his reverie.

“Take a picture, why don’t you? It’ll last longer.”

Henry hums, the sound half thoughtful and half sardonic.

“Maybe I should take one of you like this. Sprawled out, wanting, desperate.” Henry trails a finger down the sharp line of Alex’s cheekbone. “The light catches you just right.”

Alex leans into the touch, keening low in the back of his throat.

“I could post it, too, perhaps. Would you like that? Everyone seeing you wrecked? Everyone seeing exactly what they imagine every time you get on stage and sweat up a storm, flaunt your taut abs and tight arse around like you don’t know exactly what you’re doing.”

Henry trails his hand down to palm at Alex’s cock, now fully hard, and lifts the hem of his top to kiss a line down the center of his chest. Alex is responsive, leaning into Henry’s touch at every point of contact, especially when he tongues at his nipple, stiffening it under the ministrations of his mouth.

“Maybe you do, hm? Want the attention, that is. You’re so”—another kiss to his navel, a particularly rough press of his hand, a guttural moan ripped from the negative space between Alex’s lips—“performative. Reactive.”

Henry hums. “Are you going to put on a show for me too?”

Something passes over Alex’s countenance, a faltering in his expression that Henry isn’t sure how to examine, but then Alex’s gaze is sharpening and he mutters, “I’ll give you a fuckin’ show,” so, Henry lets it go.

Alex suddenly sits up, almost concussing Henry in the process. He removes himself from beneath Henry and the bed entirely and motions with two fingers for Henry to sit on the edge of the mattress. Once he does so, Alex moves in closer and spreads Henry’s legs apart with splayed-open palms on his knees before finding a new home in the space between them. Alex guides Henry’s hands to rest on his hips, and Henry notes the way they fit together—perfectly so.

“Pay attention now, sweetheart,” Alex says, as if Henry isn’t already enraptured by the sight in front of him. Then, Alex is deftly grasping the hem of his graphic tee, slowly, meticulously pulling it up and over his head. The sound that the fabric makes when he lets it fall to the floor is nearly deafening. Henry immediately leans forward to kiss the ridges of his abs, but Alex pulls him back by the nape of his neck before he can make contact. Henry whines.

“Patience, baby,” Alex whispers, as if that wouldn’t just make Henry repeat the noise, only higher, needier.

Alex’s hands move to his belt, then, unfastening the buckle, popping the button of his jeans, dragging the zipper down so slowly that Henry has the right of mind to ask if the thing got stuck somewhere along the way. His thoughts take a drastically different direction, though, when Alex loops his thumbs into the waistband of both his jeans and his pants—they narrow down to the new, tantalizing patches of skin that Alex’s action reveals and his sudden urge to bite them.

Deciding that enough is enough and that he’s wholly over the teasing, Henry places his hands over Alex’s wrists and tries to pull them down. But, Alex just laughs, the sound the lightest that it has been all night, and he pries off Henry’s grip.

“Let me do this. You just sit back, look all pretty, and watch.”

Alex stands up straight, moving to remove his clothes, when Henry spots it. His arm shoots out once more to grasp at Alex’s hand.

“Fucking— What, Henry?” he says, tilting his head back with an exasperated groan.

“You must be kidding me.”

Henry stares at the unzipped fly of Alex’s jeans, unblinking. Right there, embroidered in silky red thread: Lucky you.

Henry isn’t sure if “lucky” is the word he’d use to describe himself. Yet, as he continues to look, to let his eyes slowly wander across the sloping cursive with a small heart beside it, he wonders if it’s true. Wonders if that’s why the sounding of alarm bells is nothing but a distant white noise, overtaken by one of those cheap trills that’s reminiscent of a casino’s slot machine. But the grand prize is, like, a blowjob.

Maybe Henry’s lost track of his own metaphor a bit. Whatever.

“Mm,” Alex hums. “Nearly forgot that was there. Whoops.”

There’s not a hint of remorse in his voice.

Henry clears his throat. “Right. Sure.”

He can’t help but reach out and thumb over the smooth thread; it’s merely a convenience that it happens to align over the head of Alex’s cock. He hisses.

“Shitting— Fuck me.”

Henry grins. “Ah, but I rather think that would make you the lucky one, dear.”

Alex rolls his lips, takes a deep breath as though he’s resetting himself. It’s all but confirmed when he backs away from Henry’s touch and sinks to his knees in one breath. His voice is low and quiet when he speaks. “I don’t think so. That would be me getting your dick in my mouth, thanks.”

And before Henry has any time to respond to that, Alex and his deft fingers are playing with the buckle of his belt in a way that his guitar string would be envious of, undoing it with an agility that rivals the kind needed for the most complicated riff. His zipper gets yanked down next—the fabric looks bare, there, and Henry briefly wonders if he might convince Pez to lend him some of his friendship-bracelet-making string so that he might add a matching phrase—as do his trousers, followed by his pants. They only get as far as his knees before the head of his cock is engulfed in utter warmth.

Henry can’t help it, really. His hips immediately thrust forward on a throaty moan—which, truly, feels bloody phenomenal, what with Alex’s slick tongue sliding down his shaft and all. But, he hardly has time to relish in it before Alex is pulling off of him with a small cough, and Henry immediately realizes the error of his ways.

“Oh, shit, Alex. I’m so sorry, I—”

“You know,” Alex cuts him off. “I would say ‘don’t push your luck,’ but I don’t actually mind.”

“You don’t… Um, what do you—”

Rather than allow Henry to blindly stumble his way around the English language, Alex guides one of his hands through his curls and pushes Henry’s palm down with a steady, firm pressure. Something in the bottom of his stomach stirs at the suggestion.

“Call it a bit of guidance, yeah?” When Henry doesn’t move, Alex pushes the hand atop of Henry’s down harder. “Go on then. Use my mouth.”

Henry doesn’t have to be told twice.

Alex’s mouth is open and waiting and willing and taunting: slicked-up pink lips parted, tongue slightly lolling out. The straw that breaks the camel’s back, though, is the ghost of hot, wanting breath teased over his cock, and Henry snaps. He pushes Alex’s head down in time with the cant of his hips, a coalescence of pleasure, making sure to move slowly, to savor the feeling of his cock going, deeper, deeper, deep until he hits the back of Alex’s throat. He holds himself there for a second, for five, for ten, and…nothing.

His lips part, but only a small squeak that, apparently, represents his disbelief comes out. Alex’s eyelids flutter open at the sound. He looks up at Henry, yielding those stupidly long eyelashes in Henry’s direction like a weapon, and has the audacity to wink.

So, Alex isn’t just a menace, then. He’s a menace with no semblance of a gag reflex. Not just a weapon, but a weapon aimed to kill.

Right. Henry doesn’t know why he had expected anything less.

Henry’s learned how to resist the lure of Alex’s charm, has trained himself for it over the past few years. But he doesn’t want to hold himself back. Not when he’s earned his. When he deserves it, really.

“Fucking hell, Alex. You just have to go and be the best at everything, don’t you? You and that, ah—” Alex hallows his cheeks around Henry’s length. “That mouth. ‘S good for more than just putting on a pretty show, for singing your pretty songs, isn’t it? It just has to be good at sucking cock too. Or…”

Henry trails off, humming to himself and stroking Alex’s curls before sharply tugging at them. Alex’s resulting hiss turns into a moan, and the vibrations shoot up Henry’s spine before settling in the base of his skull, traversing to the backs of his eyelids. He sees sparks every time he so much as blinks. “Is it you that wants to be good?”

Alex whines, higher than Henry thought his pitch could even go. He thinks back to just a few nights ago, back to when Alex was in a very similar position to the one that he’s in now: on his knees, back arched, moans pitched high and needy. Henry soaks it all in, and it makes him think: for all of his talk earlier, all of his teasing Alex about putting on a show, Alex now? The boy in front of him, eyes scrunched shut and brow furrowed in concentration, taking Henry to the hilt with unbridled enthusiasm, the sounds escaping the back of his throat a constant stream of unguardedness? Well, it all seems a bit…real. Decidedly so.

So, Henry lets it be, even if just for a few moments. Even if just for a night. He lets the feeling of Alex’s warm, tight mouth overtake his senses—lets it blind him, lets it fill his nostrils, lets himself breathe in the sensation until he can’t anymore and chokes on a moan. He gets lost in the push and pull and the suction and the blunt drag of fingernails against the fragile skin of his inner thighs, the hint of teeth over his base and the swirl of tongue around his head. He falls back, only caught and held up by his shaky forearms, and the rest of his body follows suit. His head tips toward the ceiling, his mouth drops open, his legs drift further apart. He’s falling, falling, falling—

Until he’s not. Until he’s pulling Alex up and off, and he’s unsure of whose heaving breaths are filling the room, weighing the air down with the headiness of them.

Henry doesn’t want to come, not yet. He doesn’t want… this to end.

He also doesn’t want to examine why that might be.

Fortunately, Alex is talking before Henry’s mind starts to wander.

“I can’t believe how hard you pretend not to want me,” Alex muses, rising to his feet. As of this moment, Henry can’t quite believe it either, and he’s certain that it shows on his face. Alex is shirtless and sweaty and shining, and his jeans are slung low on his hips, still partially undone from before they got sidetracked. A dark line of hair acts as a direct trail that leads down to a prominent bulge. Henry sighs heavily—bites his lip, slowly shakes his head.

He gives into it. Watches Alex tug down the rest of his clothes. Lets Alex do the same to him. Lets Alex crawl over top of him. Lets Alex kiss him.

Maybe he’d let Alex do a lot of things.

“I mean,” Alex says, settling in Henry’s lap. “How can you act like you hate me when your body reacts like this to me, baby?”

It’s like proving his point isn’t enough for Alex, like he has to one-up himself, because rather than just taking Henry’s cock into his firm grip, he takes hold of both of them. Together. In one hand.

“Look how perfectly we fit together when you stop fighting it.” A flick of his wrist, a rough twist on the upstroke. “When you stop fighting me.”

Henry risks a glance downward, which is a grave mistake, if only for the fact that he doesn’t want to admit that Alex is right. Because Alex does fit perfectly in his lap, their legs smoothly slotted together, not a limb out of place; their cocks remain steady in Alex’s grasp, aligned right up against one another, the precome that’s steadily leaking from Alex more than enough to provide a pleasant slickness that guides his motions. It all converges at the point where their lips touch, where the soft, gliding pressure of Henry’s mouth balances out the rough undercurrent of Alex’s. Henry could drown in it.

But, he tries to keep his head above the surface, makes sure to tread the water carefully. He’s found, over time, that the choppy terrain can be unforgiving at best and dangerous at worst. He makes sure to keep breathing, even when Alex says things like, “You’re so much better than I’d imagined,” or, “Do you have any idea what you do to me,” or, “Fuck, you’re so gorgeous like this. When you actually let me have you.”

The task turns out to be rather Herculean.

Henry’s breath stutters when he finally reaches the precipice, when Alex works his hand over them faster as he gets the both of them precariously close to the edge. It turns into a laugh when he finally falls over, when Alex guides him there with nothing but the incessant pressure of his hand and the whispered praises hot in the shell of his ear.

Alex follows him shortly after; Henry would think nothing of the fact that his chest somehow became the canvas for both of their releases if he didn’t have half the mind to think that Alex did it on purpose.

(The other half of his mind has gone offline, for the time being. Apparently, Alex’s hand has the unique ability to cause Henry to transport back in time where he’s nothing more than a Dickensian waif.)

It’s decidedly unhelpful when Alex trails a finger up and through the mixture of their come and licks it off, his eyelids fluttering shut with a small groan, as if it’s the most delectable thing he’s ever tasted and not an action meant to render Henry capable of bloody time travel.

Alex leans forward for a kiss, and Henry lets him, tasting the remnants on his tongue and moaning into it—it’s needier, messier, filthier. All that to say is, Henry gets it.

As much as he’s content with his current lapful of Alex, especially when he continues to deepen their kisses as if he didn’t just come all over Henry and still has an unlimited reserve of energy and orgasms to cash in on, he can feel said come drying on his skin, and the sensation is making him squirm.

Henry hooks his arms under Alex’s, lifting him off and depositing him on the duvet—maybe a bit too rough, but the indignant scoff from Alex that’s softened by the glimmer in his eyes makes him think that Alex didn’t truly mind all that much.

If Henry sways his hips a bit as he makes his way over to the en-suite bathroom, hoping that the burning gaze he can feel on his backside is wholly real and not imagined, hoping that it’ll be followed by the soft pattering of footsteps following in his path, could he really be blamed for it?

Henry steps into the bathroom, but Alex is the one to close the door behind them—and the one to shove Henry up against it. Hard.

They step under the hot spray together only once the bathroom has filled with steam, sweat beginning to gather at Alex’s brow, his buoyant curls growing damp. Henry crowds Alex against the tiles, drops to his knees and returns the favor from earlier with enthusiasm as he mouths over Alex’s cock, alternating between teasing licks and heavy suction until Alex is whining and writhing above him, coming for a second time. Henry swallows it up greedily, continues to run his tongue over Alex’s slit until his hair is lazily tugged at. He pulls back at the feeling and lets himself stare at Alex, at his wet curls that frame sharp cheekbones, at his eyes that still contain a glint of mirth despite being half-lidded, at his parted lips, pink and glossy from where his tongue has laved over it, red and bruised from where he’d bitten it to stifle his shout of pleasure when he came.

It doesn’t take long for Alex to bring Henry to orgasm, too; he’s already pent up from getting Alex off again, probably would’ve come earlier if he was allowed to keep his mouth on Alex’s length for another minute. He gets Henry up and turned around so that he’s facing the wall, hands braced on the cold tile. Alex slots behind him, chest flush against Henry’s back, one hand extended outward next to his head, the other reaching around to grasp Henry’s cock. It’s slow and dirty and Alex is whispering things like, “Fuckin’ gorgeous, aren’t you?” and, “You gonna come again for me? Please?” into his ear, and it’s all so hot that Henry comes after just a few pointed tugs of Alex’s hand, painting the tiles with his release.

After they’ve controlled their wandering hands for long enough to actually clean themselves, Henry shuts off the water and steps out on shaky legs. The steam begins to dissipate, the room becoming much clearer, and they dry off in a silence that feels…weighted. Unfamiliar.

It’s unnerving.

Henry opens his mouth to fill the stilted air with some sort of biting quip, a snarky remark at Alex’s expense, but nothing comes out. He snaps it back shut.

Alex walks out of the room, closing the door behind him, leaving Henry alone with nothing but his own reflection staring back at him. There’s a hickey on his neck. He doesn’t remember how it got there.

He stands there for what could either be a minute or an hour before muttering, “Right. Alright, then,” to himself, nodding his head at the floor, taking a deep breath and ensuring that all of his wits are about him before going back to the main room.

Alex is in his bed. Henry slowly walks over to him, observing his shut eyes and even breaths and prone position. There’s a tension in Alex, though—in the way a wrinkle makes itself known between his brows and the visible tension held in his shoulders. He thinks Alex must’ve fallen asleep, and he holds back a scoff as he starts to pull on his pants when he hears—

“I’m kinda fuckin’ over this.”

It’s barely louder than a whisper, but the words ring clearly in Henry’s ears all the same.

Because… The thing is.

The thing is, Henry… Well. Henry wouldn’t have minded doing this, again. Whatever this was. So, it’s hardly his fault when he hastily bites out, “Right. I get it. You hate me and this changes nothing between us, sure. You don’t have to be so…bitter about it, though.”

“What? No, Henry, that’s not what I—”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Alex, really,” Henry interrupts, tugging his shirt over his head. “I should just—”

“Jesus fuck, dude, can you just listen to me?” Alex’s voice is pleading in a way that gives Henry pause. He sits down on the edge of the bed, one leg bent on the mattress, the other firmly planted on the floor. “It’s just… That’s exactly it—what you said. The hate thing, I mean.”

Alex pauses to sit up against the headboard. He’s not looking at Henry when he speaks, rather, down at his hands where he’s fidgeting with them.

“I don’t— Why do you hate me so much?”

This time, Henry can’t hold back the scoff that presses past his lips. The puff of breath tastes sour on his tongue.

“Seriously? Do you not remember what happened, or do you just enjoy being an utter arsehole to people for no good reason?”

Alex’s head snaps up at that, his eyes going wide. “Woah, man, back the fuck up. What are you talking about?”

Henry rolls his. “Oh, you know.”

“Clearly, I don’t.”

“Two years ago, give or take. Some miscreant bodily slammed into me, completely wrecked one of my most valuable pieces of equipment, and then ran off without another word. As if you couldn’t bloody afford to give up so much as a simple apology.”

Alex gapes, recognition blooming on his face. His head tilts almost imperceptibly.

“But I—”

“And then,” Henry plows on. “I tried to find you after the show, you know, to actually talk like adults do. But, someone was too busy blatantly avoiding me and pulling girls into dark rooms to get their faces sucked. So.” Henry pauses, assessing Alex carefully. He squints; Alex blinks back. “There’s also the fact that you love to taunt me at any given opportunity. You must forgive me for doing the elementary math here and coming up with the sum of you absolutely loathing me, apparently.”

Alex levels him with a blank stare for one, two, ten seconds before it narrows, his head shaking in disbelief. “That… But I— I apologized for that?”

Henry mirrors the action. “You most certainly did not.”

“Um…yeah. I did.”

“Believe me, Alex. I’d remember if I heard anything that could possibly resemble an apology come out of your mouth.”

Alex runs his hand over his face. “I didn’t— Okay, yeah, I didn’t say it to your face. But I thought that my note would’ve sufficed.”

Henry is so bloody confused. “What note?”

“The one in the fucking gift basket.” Alex waves his hands around. “Y’know. The big ass one that I sent you, like, a week later.”

“I have no idea what you’re—” Henry cuts himself off because…he does remember getting a gift basket around that time. Only, there was no note attached to it. He remembers being well and truly baffled—who would send him a gigantic bouquet of flowers and a shiny new camera lens and not attach a note to say who it was from or why it was sent? He had shrugged it off at the time, inhaled the fresh scent of the bright yellow daffodils and admired the lens, instantly unboxing it to attach it to his camera. He figured it must’ve been some thank you gift—albeit, a bit of an over-extravagant one; though, he certainly wasn’t complaining—from one of his recent clients, chalking up the lack of note to an unfortunate delivery error or sheer forgetfulness. He hadn’t thought much of it.

But now?

“That was… That was from you?” Henry asks, his voice slightly incredulous. He’s in a bit of a daze.

“Yeah. It was,” Alex replies resolutely. “Signed my name and number and everything, but I never heard back from you. No call, no thank you text, nothing. Radio fucking silence. And any time I ran into you in person, I’d try to approach you, to see what the fuck was up, but… You just completely ignored me as if I was no better than the gum stuck to the bottom of your shoe. Turned your head and looked the other way if we passed one another or went out of your way to avoid me completely. How else am I meant to interpret that, Henry?

“I didn’t… I never hated you. Not really. But you sure as hell seemed like you did. And I’d see you at gigs, at festivals, flaunting your shiny new lens—so I knew that you’d gotten my basket—and yet. Still an ass. So, sue me for doing what I know best and giving it back as good as I get, alright?”

Alex sighs, and Henry lets the moment be as he absorbs the new information, the kind that threatens to tilt the Earth on its axis with nothing but the mere push of one’s finger. The kind that topples over everything he thought he knew easily.

“And for what it’s worth,” Alex continues. “I wasn’t too busy ‘sucking face’ to apologize to you that night. I was doing what I knew best: throwing myself into my work, into my life, with everything that I had. Putting on a fucking show until I couldn’t breathe, let alone fuckin’ think because I was so torn up over what had happened. You try literally running into the most insanely gorgeous man you’ve ever seen in your fucking life and see what happens. You should come with a warning sign, Jesus fucking Christ. You’d freeze up in complete and total embarrassment and get all flustered and run off, too. I had to recruit Nora—best friend extraordinaire, the girl you saw me with, et cetera—to help me figure out what to do, how to apologize to you, lest I get cursed by an actual literal Greek God. But, by the time I tried to find you… You were gone. So, gift basket, et voila.”

Alex punctuates his explanation with a weak flourish of his hands. The motion falls flat. Henry is… Henry doesn’t know what he is, actually, because he can’t stop thinking about how—

“That—” Henry’s voice cracks, and he clears his throat. “That was an eight-hundred-dollar lens, Alex.”

Alex nods his head, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. “Yup.”

“Two years ago you were… Christ, how did you afford that?”

Alex shrugs. “I was already pretty close to rock bottom, playing gigs at shoddy bars and drowning in schoolwork at the same time. I was used to surviving on shitty coffee and instant noodles, figured what’s a few more months of doin’ that, right?” He laughs weakly.

“I didn’t— You didn’t have to—” Henry flounders. “There wasn’t a note when I got it. I had no idea.”

Alex sinks back into the sheets with a defeated sigh. Henry moves to join him, his movements slow and cautious so as to not startle Alex. But, the man latches onto Henry’s forearm and yanks him forward so that he falls onto Alex’s chest with a punched-out oof.

“Menace. Plague on my existence.” The words are more fond than they’ve ever been before.

“But you like it?” It’s more of a question than it is a statement, a hint of vulnerability creeping into Alex’s tone that Henry isn’t used to hearing.

“I do,” Henry says, surprised to find nothing but pure honesty laced throughout his words. And then, because Henry can’t help himself, “‘Greek God,’ huh?”

Alex groans, shoving at his shoulder. Henry doesn’t budge.

“How did you put it? ‘The most insanely hot man that you’ve ever—’”

“Gorgeous,” Alex interrupts quietly, eyes set on Henry’s.

“What?”

“Not ‘hot’. You’re gorgeous, Henry.”

There’s a certain weight to his words, an urgency pushing them to the surface. Like Alex needs Henry to accept them as truth. To believe them; to believe Alex.

Henry flushes, tilting his head down to burrow into Alex’s chest. Alex doesn’t let him hide for too long, though, coaxing his head back up with two fingers beneath his chin.

“I don’t know about that,” Henry says warily. “That’s my job, not me—taking ‘pretty pictures’ of pretty people, as you called it.”

Alex regards him curiously. “Has no one ever taken your picture before, then?”

“Not in a long time, no.”

“Well, that just won’t do then.” Alex shoves Henry off him—successfully this time, much to Henry’s dismay; he was comfortable—and slides off the bed, tugging on his jeans before Henry can truly get the chance to admire his bare arse and walking over to the table where Henry’s equipment lies forgotten. He scoops up the camera, struts back over to Henry with a calculated smirk on his face, says, “Smile for the camera, baby,” and snaps a photo before Henry has time to blink, let alone stop it from happening.

“Alex, no,” Henry half groans, half whines.

“Alex, yes,” Alex parrots in a mock-exasperated tone.

Henry exhales, acquiescing. “Come on, then. Let’s see if you’ve uncovered yet another talent of yours.”

Alex beams, plopping himself down next to Henry so that they’re pressed shoulder to shoulder. Henry plucks the camera out of Alex’s hands and navigates to his image. He has to hold back his laughter at what he sees—the photo is blurry, over-exposed, half of Henry’s head is cut off, and he’s in the middle of a particularly uneven blink—and turns the camera so that the screen is out of Alex’s sight.

“Um, hey.” Alex protests, repeatedly poking at Henry’s forearm. “No fair. I wanna see it!”

Henry purses his lips, shakes his head solemnly. “No can do. I can’t go boosting your ego now, can I?”

“Henry, please—”

“I fear that I have some dire competition on my hands. I don’t know that I should let anyone see this masterpiece.”

Alex moves to snatch the camera, but Henry is faster, yanking it above his head.

“You’re too good,” Henry says through a startled laugh when Alex pokes his armpit; he almost drops his camera, again, and they certainly don’t need any repeat incidents, so he steadily lowers it to his chest. “Going to run me right out of business, you are.”

Alex must finally catch a glimpse because he barks out a laugh, too, ceasing his incessant tickling. “Oh, fuck me, that’s…”

“A valiant attempt?” Henry supplies.

“I was going to say ‘a crime to my eyeballs and a disgrace to humanity.’ But, sure. Yeah. That works too.”

Henry gapes. “You are aware that I’m the subject of the photo, yes?”

Alex grins, taking the camera out of Henry’s hands and gingerly placing it on the nightstand before climbing on top of Henry. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings, baby. It’s more of a commentary on my skills than your pretty little face. Don’t you worry ‘bout a thing.”

Alex lays his Southern accent on thick, a rare occurrence ever since he’s gone more mainstream. Henry, for his part, flushes down to his chest. Naturally.

“I could teach you,” Henry says, apropos of nothing.

“How to be pretty?” Alex replies. “Mm, no thanks. I think I’ve got that down pat already.”

Henry fondly rolls his eyes. “I see that you still haven’t found those manners of yours.”

“Oh, please,” Alex starts. “I’ll show you how fucking polite I can be.”

“That mouth of yours certainly isn’t helping your— mmph.”

Henry’s cut off by that mouth pressing against his in a kiss that’s decidedly not polite—Henry doesn’t know what point Alex is trying to prove, but he has little room to question him when he’s getting kissed within half an inch of his life. He only pulls back when his lips have gone all pleasantly numb and tingly.

“I meant how to properly take a photo, you reprobate,” Henry chides.

“I’ve got a show in a few days in D.C., plus a few days off in between that and our next stop. Think you could make the trip? Show me then?”

Henry taps a finger on his chin, pretending to think about it. “Hmm, I don’t know. I’m going to be quite busy editing these photos of a certain salacious rockstar. You might know of him: curly hair, mischievous eyes, short—”

“Five nine is not short—”

“Breathtakingly beautiful,” Henry concludes. That stops Alex short, his face going all fond and soft around the edges. The sun has begun to set, and it creeps through the blinds and settles on the smooth planes of Alex’s face, highlighting his golden skin. Henry’s fingers itch to pick up his camera, to capture the serene image, but he stops himself. Thinks that maybe he ought to just commit the sight to memory instead, tucked safely behind his eyelids for only him to see.

“Oh.”

“Oh, indeed,” Henry affirms. And then, “In case it wasn’t obvious, I’d love to come, Alex.”

Henry soothes a thumb over Alex’s brow, the left side of his cheekbone, down the side of his jaw, following the bright path of the sunlight highlighting his skin. He lets it linger over his lower lip before leaning in to press a fleeting kiss to it.

“I’ll give you my number, then,” Alex says, taking Henry’s phone out of his pocket and making him unlock it. After fidgeting with it for a moment, Alex turns the screen to Henry’s face with a flourish. “There. Locked and loaded and ready to go so you can’t go and lose it this time.”

Henry doesn’t correct the validity of Alex’s statement, too busy squinting against the sudden brightness of the screen, trying to make out the contact information: photography intern 📷🎸

He laughs despite himself, locking his phone and placing it face down beside him. He wraps his arms around Alex’s back and pulls him in tighter atop him. “I’ll text you.”

“You better.”

Six months later

henryfoxphotos ✓

New York City, NY

[Image: Alex Claremont-Diaz in a hotel room at sunset, the room cast in a dim orange glow. He’s sitting in a bay-window seat with his legs bent up, strumming his guitar. His face is barely visible from the sunlight backlighting it, but his signature curls are recognizable. The photo is slightly blurry.]

Liked by alexcd, norahollerbackgirl, likethesweets and 1,864,032 others

I may not have a clue, or style, but my boyfriend does.

—

View all 42,508 comments

>>>

alexcd ✓ u fucking know it, baby

     > rosie0298 OH MY GOD WHAT IN THE SOFT

         LAUNCH IS THIS????

     > norahollerbackgirl get ur man alejandro!!

likethesweets bestie alex is soooo talented (you aren’t too bad yourself i suppose haz)

gorgeousgorgeousgays smash.

     > henryfoxphotos ✓ I already did, but thank

         you.

          > alexscowboyhat SHDJFSKJFKH ALRIGHT

              HENRY

          > junebugcd I didn’t need to know that

               > alexcd ✓ no one made u look at the

                  comments bug

                    > junebugcd you literally handed me

                        the phone and said, and I quote,

                        “hahahahah bug look at this”

                         > alexcd ✓ idk that sounds like a

                             personal problem to me

Alex❤️🎤

December 4th, 2024

Henry

Love, are you menacing on Instagram already?

Alex❤️🎤

…

no…

Henry

Alex.

Alex❤️🎤

okay FINE maybe i am

its literally not my fault its so fun

Henry

Remind me why I love you again?

Alex❤️🎤

uhhhh

bc i’m totally cool and sexy and amazing and hot and talented

at literally everything?

Henry

That you are, my love.

Alex❤️🎤

this is why youre my favorite roadie!!!!

Henry

We’ve been over this. I’m your Boyfriend, not a Roadie

Alex❤️🎤

yeah yeah, i know

i just wanted to hear u say it

but u do give pretty fucking awesome road head too

Henry

I’m losing your number.

Alex❤️🎤

it wouldn’t be the first time

hahahahah

Henry

Plague. Reprobate. Absolute love of my life.

Alex❤️🎤

are u getting ur synonyms mixed up there baby?

didn’t u major in words or whatever

Henry

Nope. They mean the same thing.

I learned that when I got my *English Lit degree.

(…)

Chinese takeout alright with you?

Alex❤️🎤

perfect

Henry

Great.

Alex❤️🎤

stellar

Henry

Good.

Alex❤️🎤

fuckin fantastic

(…)

i love u

Henry

I love you too, Alex